


Caitlin

by bonnie_wee_swordsman



Series: Various Tumblr Prompts [4]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Angst, So much angst, spoiler alert: Voyager
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 20:12:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8547541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonnie_wee_swordsman/pseuds/bonnie_wee_swordsman
Summary: From the Tumblr Prompt: I've had this in my head for awhile and I keep missing the window at Imagine and well the "Tell her I love her" drabble you wrote sealed the deal that I had to send it in because dear God, you know how to make us really feel the loss of Faith. Anyway, the idea is a take on how Jamie is effected by Jenny's daughter Caitlin being stillborn. I keep seeing him holding Caitlin and only then fully realising what he lost with his daughter’s death. He was so removed from the pregnancy and the birth, in a lot of ways it never seemed real to him, it didn’t have the sharp edges it did for Claire. Faith was more a concept than a reality. I think it would crack his heart open at a time when he was maybe numb.





	

**The kitchen door wasn’t usually locked.**

Jamie stood on the stoop, waiting impatiently for the answer to his knock. He was shivering so hard his whole body seemed to convulse, the bitter cold of the December night (and it was well after midnight, forbye) made all the more acute by the promise of warmth within. His clothes were thin and ragged, hanging off his frame as they did the other inhabitants of Lallybroch. Claire had said the hunger would ravage the Highlands, and never had they been more hungry than now. For all the agony of not having her, of always wondering, of missing her so acutely that he sometimes thought he would die from it, at least she wasn’t here suffering in this hell, too. 

_Lord, that she might be safe. She and the child.  
_

He tried the door again just to be certain—yes, locked—and knocked again, hammering more forcefully.  He heard small, light footsteps coming his way. Mrs. Crook? Her rooms weren’t far. The tentative voice that spoke, though, was male. 

“Who’s—who is there? _State your business_ ,” it said, the last more harshly, rising sharply. 

“Christ, Fergus, it’s only _me_!” Jamie hissed through the door. “Now will ye let me in before my cock freezes right to my balls?” 

“Oh, Milord!” the boy said with a depth of relief in the voice that struck Jamie like a dart. There came the sound of grating bolts and then the door swung open wide enough for Jamie to enter into the warmth–or what _should_ have been warmth. The fire was so weak that the kitchen felt barely warmer than the cave from whence he’d come. Were there really not enough peats to warm the house? To Jamie’s further astonishment, there were a half-dozen or so little blanketed humps crowded around the hearth. One of these suddenly moved and sat up: _Kitty_ , looking up at Jamie’s bearded apparition with wide eyes. All the Murray children were there, Jamie could see as he stepped closer, even the two-year-old twins, one tucked under each of Maggie’s arms.

“Fergus, man,” he whispered, turning to face his fourteen-year-old foster son, “why on earth are all the weans—?” He froze. Fergus’ eyes were red and the skin around them swollen with weeping. He seemed to be struggling to keep himself from crying further. “ _Jesus Chris_ t, lad,” Jamie said, alarmed,  “What’s happened?”

“The—the Redcoats came–”

“ _God in Heaven, no,_ ” Jamie breathed, his whole body clenching in fear and dread.

“They slashed at things with their swords and took whatever they could lay hands on and…. They–” Fergus broke off with a strangled sound, his voice high and strained. “They _beat_ Monsieur Murray very badly so that he could not move…and they did it in front of Madame Jenny and all the children and… and then….” 

Jamie grabbed him hard by the shoulders. “Is Ian dead?” he demanded, panicked, “Did they _kill_ him, lad?”

Fergus shook his head. “He is alive, but…” He squeezed his eyes very tightly shut, steeling himself. “But Madame Jenny tried to intervene and the captain struck her and…she fell very hard, and–”

A tiny sob came from behind them, and Jamie whipped his head around to see four-year-old Kitty, still watching them, but her eyes streaming now over both tiny fists she had pressed to her face as though holding a comforting blanket. Jamie went to her at once, kneeling to scoop her up hug her against him. “ _Whisht_ , Kitty, love,” he crooned, smoothing her hair. “Dinna fash, little one, Uncle Jamie’s–”

“Th’ bad mans kick– _kicked_ Mam in the belly to _hurt the wee bairn!_ ” she sobbed into his shoulder, “again and _again_ and AGAIN!”

Jamie stared in horror up at Fergus over the top of her head. The boy’s face contorted…and then he nodded.

“ _Tell me,_ ” Jamie said urgently in French. “ _Tell me everything, at once_.”

_“It was….horrible,”_ he said in the same language, for Kitty’s sake _. “Young Jamie and I tried to stop them, even Monsieur Murray who could barely move from his own wounds, but the soldiers would only fling us back or point their bayonets at us_. _And when they finally left_ , _some hours ago_ , s _he… went into labor.”_

“ _No_ ,” Jamie croaked, shaking his head furiously. “ _No, it was too soon. Far too soon._ ” Jenny couldn’t have been more than six or seven months along.   

_“The blows were_ that _hard, Milord,”_ Fergus said, the stunned, raw horror of it radiating from his eyes. “ _She was in–so much pain–moaning and–and bleeding and clutching her belly—and with Mrs. Crook sick in bed already with la grippe, there was only Monsieur Murray and me to assist with the delivery, and Monsieur was badly hurt, himself, and….It was horrible_ ,” he repeated, breathing hard. “ _The children were all terrified from the redcoats already. I brought them all down here to be as far away from the sounds of the birth as possible, but…Jamie and Maggie said they could still hear as she–_ ”  

Fergus broke off with a sob, rubbing his swollen eyes, which made him look so very young. Jamie clung to wee Kitty just as desperately as she was clinging to him, silently begging Fergus to say it, the most important thing…. and begging him never to say it.

“ _Madame Jenny still lives,_ ” he said at last. 

Jamie released the sob he had been holding in along with a prayer in Gaelic. Losing Jenny on top of everything else would have _–_

“ _But… the child lived for only a few minutes._ ”

* * *

 

**He knocked softly on the door.**

“Jenny?” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “It’s Jamie.”

“Come, Jamie,” came the husk of Ian’s voice.

Jamie pushed open the door…and immediately wished he were anywhere else in the world, looking upon _any_ other sight than this one.

Ian was sitting on the stained bedclothes next to his wife. They were both covered in horrific wounds and bruises, and Jamie felt his fists clench in abject rage at the English bastards who had brutalized them so. Jenny’s face was swollen nearly beyond recognition. Ian’s arms were wrapped in bloody bandages.  But this was _nothing_  compared to the agony in their faces as they looked down at the bundle of blankets in Jenny’s arms. 

Jenny was weeping, gritting her teeth and rocking, brows furrowed and looking as though she couldn’t breathe, and was realizing she would be forced to keep living without air. Ian had his arms around Jenny _and_ the child, tight, as though to pull them both into himself, as though that would somehow keep them safe, somehow erase this tragedy from all of their bodies. It couldn’t, nothing could, a fact branded on Ian’s face as surely as with hot iron. 

Jamie sat slowly on Jenny’s other side. The babe’s face was hidden by blankets, but he could see just how tiny it was. So very small. “Jen…Ian…I’m–” He broke off, unable to speak, letting the sorrow and tears overtake him, too. There were simply no words powerful enough to express the pain and sorrow he felt for his sister, his brother. He kissed Jenny’s temple and reached behind her to grasp Ian’s shoulder.

The three of them clung together for a long time, all weeping, all speechless, the tragedy of the past hours lying cold between them in Jenny’s arms. 

Finally, Ian gave a little moan, leaned down to kiss Jenny’s hair, and whispered, “It’s time, now, _mo chridhe_.”

Jenny didn’t take her eyes away from the babe. She looked crazed, fierce, like she would break apart at any moment, her entire body about to explode into dust. Then, very slowly, she nodded. She kissed the tiny face, hidden from view by the blanket, then closed her eyes tight and held the bundle out…to _him_.

Jamie was almost to the door with the tiny burden when Jenny groaned out his name. Jamie turned. Jenny was leaning forward, restrained by Ian’s arms, as though to fling herself off the bed. Her eyes were streaming, but direct, imploring as her voice:  “Her name is _Caitlin_. Caitlin—Maisri—Murray.”

Jamie’s heart and wame seemed to fall out of his body in one blow.

_A lass…a tiny, cold lass… lost too soon._

_A daughter._

Jenny was breaking down, held together by Ian’s strong grip, but she managed to gasp out, “Please don’t let—her— _be alone,_ Jamie _!_ ”

“I’ll—watch over—her,” Jamie choked, though his vision was blurring and spinning.  He staggered from the room. 

The wailing that followed him out the door, the screaming that echoed the halls of the house, penetrated his mind…

Christ…it was _Claire’s._

* * *

 

**It took Jamie a moment to realize that Fergus had spoken. “Forgive me lad. What did you say?”**

“I said only, is there anything else you need, Milord?”

Fergus had built a small fire in the parlor and brought the blankets, towels, and basin of water for which Jamie had asked. Jamie thought of asking him to stay with him. God knew he didn’t want to be alone…but, no, he had to do this. And to do it, he needed to be alone.

“No, son, nothing. Thank you,” he said, bringing Fergus in close with his free arm and kissing his curly head briefly. “Go back to the kitchen and watch over the weans, aye?”

Fergus held on tightly for a moment longer, then nodded and walked out, closing the door carefully behind him

Jamie closed his eyes and felt the tiny weight in his arms. He hadn’t put down the bundle, not for a moment… but neither had he been able to bring himself to look at what lay inside. 

He took a deep, shuddering breath. 

He blindly unfolded the blanket so that it slithered over his arm and slipped to the ground.

…and he opened his eyes.

A long time later, he found himself on the floor with his back against the chair. Though the tears burned unbearably, he couldn’t take his eyes from her.  

She was so exquisitely tiny. The entire length of her bare body rested easily on his forearm. Her skin was so pale and fair that the firelight shone through, making her look as if she were dipped in dappled sunlight, despite the dark of the night and the room. 

He traced the lines of her, ran his fingertips gently along her belly; her legs, still curled from the womb; the fragile fingers and toes; the graceful bones of face and shoulders. She was so _soft_ …like a lamb’s ear, covered in fuzz. And her eyes–

> _“She hadn’t any lashes yet… her eyes were slanted…like yours…’_

“She _is_  perfect, _mo nighean donn_ … just as ye said she was.” 

The sound of his own voice brought it all flooding down around him and he dissolved. 

This small, innocent babe was _his_  daughter. His firstborn that he would have cherished with his last breath. That life that would have been. She’d have had her own spirit. She’d have had her own voice. A voice that was silenced before she ever got to use it. 

Without thinking, Jamie pulled the neck of his shirt forward and slipped the babe inside, cupping her to his shoulder, needing to give her his own warmth, as if somehow that would give her life again long enough for her to hear him. 

“I love you…” he creaked, resting his lips on the downy head. “I loved you from the minute I knew of you, _a leannan_. You were made out of the purest love, of the most wonderful mother. And I wanted so badly…” He closed his eyes and kissed her cheek, gulping for hair. “Wanted so badly to see you grow. See you learn to be brave and bonnie and clever. See you play here in the fields. See how you would take after me…and after your Mam…”

He cupped her tighter against him. She was just _so small_ …so small it was if she would slip between the spaces of his body and disappear.  She couldn’t disappear now. He needed to tell her more. 

“I should have had a steady life prepared for you to come into, _a chuisle_. And instead, I–made it so you were born in turmoil and danger. I _couldna save you_ …and I couldna even kiss you goodbye.” He could barely speak. He clutched the babe harder against him. “You were just…hidden from me in the womb…and then _gone_ , buried under the–”

Jamie felt his wame lurch and he had to marshall all his control to keep from vomiting. The thought of his infant daughter being placed in a dark hole and covered with soil, smothering and evil, made him lose all sense of control. He covered the lass entirely with his arms, as if to snatch her back from that dark place and hide her from all the world, keeping her in a quiet, safe place where only he could see.

“I’m sorry, _mo chridhe,”_ he sobbed to the babe, “I’m so…so…sorry.”

He held her for a long time, rocking her, holding her and kissing her, asking forgiveness from her…and from Claire. 

Then, the ghost of a soft, white hand lighted on his shoulder. The ghost of a whispered voice said gently,  _It’s time, my love_ , and he rose. 

He washed her, carefully, lovingly, memorizing every inch of her one more time. 

He prepared the tiny bier, wrapping the finest of the ragged blankets around a cushion on the table, laying her out upon it, and tucking another overtop the small body, as if for sleep. 

He ran his thumb across the tiny brow.

“Be at peace…sweet Faith.”  

* * *

 

**“Jamie?” came Ian’s ragged voice some hours later.**

Jamie hadn’t been asleep. He had stayed leaned over the table, cupping the tiny head between both hands, his forearms flanking her, shielding her from the night: she had not been alone. 

He placed a last kiss on the lass’s head and stood. Ian’s eyes were ringed with bruises and with sleeplessness, red and inflamed.

The two men clasped one another hard. “Thank you, brother,” Ian whispered fervently.

Jamie turned at the door to see Ian sink down before the child–his wee Caitlin–to take up the vigil; to mourn. 

As Jamie walked out into the morning light, back to the cave, he felt it all deep in his heart: the grief and the desolation, past and present; the hopelessness and the fear of what would come.

But he also felt something unexpected: a lightness, a… _calmness_ in his soul that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He imagined it as a child’s voice, a lass of about Kitty’s age.  She _would_ be about that age, by now.

“You _be at peace, too, Da.”_


End file.
